


Accidental Destinations

by sassafrasx



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Harry Hart Lives, Harry Hart is a Little Shit, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spy Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/pseuds/sassafrasx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry huffs and he’s just so blessedly him in that moment, fuck the wires and the bandage round his head and all, that Eggsy thinks he might cry for the first time since he found out Harry was alive.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s a nice surprise alright.” Eggsy sniffs and blinks, continues, “Christ, Harry, do you have any idea…” He trails off as he wipes at his eyes, the sleeve of his favourite Adidas jacket pulled over his thumb like he’d do when he was little.</p><p>“No, I imagine I don’t,” Harry says, smiling sadly. “But from what I’ve heard you’ve done a truly spectacular job while I’ve been out. I couldn’t be more proud.”</p><p>Oh, fuck it, Eggsy thinks as he laughs through a great, hiccuping sob that he knows he’ll never be able to stop now, and he grabs Harry’s hand and squeezes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Destinations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> Deepdarkwaters: As is probably apparent from the number of chapters, this story got completely out of hand. I absolutely loved your prompts and despite encroaching deadlines was never quite able to wrestle the fic back under my control, so, after thoughts of chucking the whole thing out the window along with my laptop and just doing a little PWP, I've decided to let the story go where it wants and post it in chapters. The next two chapters are written but need proper editing, so hopefully should be up shortly, and the rest is well on its way too. My apologies for not posting it all at once, but I was very inspired by your prompts as we share many of the same likes and I really hope you enjoy what came out of it. <3
> 
> Title from a poem by Nav K: [a lack and a sudden abundance of salt](http://www.navk.ca/post/90364437910)
> 
> Other tags and whatnot will be added as I go along.

After a mission in Skopje — tracking down some hacker holed up in the outskirts of the city like a rat in the walls through brutal rain that had felt like a lashing and a bloody half — Eggsy comes back to HQ to find a nice, neat little dog bed tucked into the corner of Harry’s room.

Eggsy doesn’t even notice the other major change at first, if he’s completely honest, which he’s not because he’s a spy and he is a) never going to admit to that lack of observation and b) _a fucking spy_ , so it’s actually in the job description. He feels raw and bone tired, like the rain has whittled him down to a bruised lump of flesh that will never be dry again despite the warm shower and change of clothes that awaited him on his three-hour flight home. And he knows this room, its smells, the way the light slants in at different times of day, the background click-clack of the nurses going about their work; but there’s a dog bed which Eggsy definitely didn’t buy in a room where the only thing to have changed in months is the arrangement of the flowers on the table and he stops and stares, bemused.

Which is why, when he hears, “Hello, Eggsy,” in a soft voice sore with disuse he jumps, whips his head around, and yelps in an octave even he didn’t know he was capable of.

“ _Jesus buggering fuck_. You’re awake! Holy shit, Harry, _you’re awake_ ,” Eggsy finds himself babbling, mouth gone off the rails, but who sodding cares, _Harry is awake_ , and he rushes over to Harry’s side.

“So it would seem,” Harry says, eyes crinkled up in the corners despite how pale he still is and how little he seems to be moving yet, but he looks better, so much better, a vitality underneath his skin that’s been missing for much too long.

“How— Why didn’t—”

“We couldn’t interfere with your mission and we thought it would be a nice surprise. I’m not exactly going anywhere at the moment.” Harry huffs and he’s just so blessedly him in that moment, fuck the wires and the bandage round his head and all, that Eggsy thinks he might cry for the first time since he found out Harry was alive.

“Yeah, it’s a nice surprise alright.” Eggsy sniffs and blinks, continues, “Christ, Harry, do you have any idea…” He trails off as he wipes at his eyes, the sleeve of his favourite Adidas jacket pulled over his thumb like he’d do when he was little.

“No, I imagine I don’t,” Harry says, smiling sadly. “But from what I’ve heard you’ve done a truly spectacular job while I’ve been out. I couldn’t be more proud.”

 _Oh, fuck it_ , Eggsy thinks as he laughs through a great, hiccuping sob that he knows he’ll never be able to stop now, and he grabs Harry’s hand and squeezes.

*

Doctors say the glancing blow to Harry’s temple fractured his skull, which caused the swelling that put him in a coma, but that the bullet never touched his brain and there’s no reason not to expect a full recovery. Eventually, miraculously.

Merlin says Harry has the hardest head on the planet and more lives than a cat and leaves it at that.

But as Eggsy watches Harry stubbornly take his first steps, back straight despite the strain of atrophy and a final surgery looming at the end of the week now that he’s conscious, he can only be immensely grateful either way.

*

“Brought some treats,” Eggsy says and shakes the paper bag in his hand. “But don’t tell the nurses, yeah? Merlin’ll have my head for fucking with whatever diet they have you on.”

Harry’s eyes light up as he sets his newspaper down, slow and careful. “Treats?” he says hopefully in a voice so much like Daisy’s when she thinks being cute will get her anything she wants that Eggsy can’t help but snort at him.

“Yes, you bloody five-year old. I saw all the bags from the bakery round the corner from your house in your cupboard and thought I’d grab you something on the way in today. It looks like your sweet tooth is big enough for twenty children, guv, judging by the number of them bags.”

“A bit of pudding never hurt anyone, Eggsy,” Harry sniffs and smooths down his blankets. Eggsy nudges his tray table over for him without comment.

“ _A bit of pudding_ , he says.” Eggsy rolls his eyes and then points a finger in Harry’s direction. “I seen everything now, mate. I know all your dirty little secrets. Sweet tooth the size of Siberia.”

When Harry only smirks a bit and blinks up at him innocently, Eggsy just tosses the bag onto the tray and lets him have at it. He survived being shot in the head and months in a coma, he can have whatever he bloody well wants.

“Thank you, Eggsy,” Harry says, pleased, as he inspects his spoils.

Eggsy snags a pastry and studies Harry thoughtfully. Harry’s hands still shake, minutely, as he sits up straighter to sort through the various pastries and cakes and scones. (Alright, Eggsy might’ve gone a wee bit overboard there, but it’s worth it for the way Harry ponders over what he’d like to eat first.) The colour’s coming back to him, though, his skin no longer dry and papery thin, brittle, and the bandage is smaller, held in place over his temple and no longer wrapped completely around his head. He’s clean shaven and Eggsy is struck by an idle thought of what it’d be like to be the nurse that helped him — Harry’s probably the type to use a straight razor, sharp and precise, all traces of stubble smoothing out under each pass of the blade. But his hair is free of any of his usual styling, falling in soft waves over his forehead and wherever it hasn’t been cut back from his wound, and Eggsy’s lips curl up a bit.

He looks good. Better, so much better.

“You don’t mind that I’ve been staying at your house, yeah?” Eggsy has to ask, now that they have a quiet minute alone. “Merlin said you wouldn’t, that it’d be good to have someone house sit for you, and, you know, with how crazy everything’s been since V-Day, we’re still not at full capacity, so no time really for anyone to find a house and do all the proper security and all that. I was lucky to be able to set Mum and Daisy up in a small flat of their own for now.”

“Of course not,” Harry says, then sighs. “And it’ll be a while yet before I’m allowed home, or so I’m told. Someone should keep the place lively, an empty house is rather useless all things considered.”

“Well cheers then,” Eggsy says and takes a bite of his pastry, a moan shocked out of him. “Fuck me, this is _good_. Shit.” Eggsy blinks down at his hands in surprise. No wonder Harry has so many sodding bags lying around.

Harry grins. “Best bakery in London.”

Eggsy waves his apple tart at Harry accusingly. “If I get too fat to go on missions anymore it’ll be all your fault.” As JB skitters around at Harry’s side, yipping and drooling and happy as can be, Eggsy gives the dog bed a pointed look and raises an eyebrow at Harry. “A dog bed?”

“Well someone had to keep me company, and JB should have a proper place to sleep.”

“Drive Merlin that mental, did ya? Letting dogs onto the medical floor,” Eggsy says.

“Merlin had the bed overnighted, actually.”

“Oh my god, you are impossible.”

After chewing thoughtfully for a few moments, Harry looks at Eggsy brightly. "Have you been brushing Mr Pickle regularly, Eggsy?"

Eggsy stares. "Brushin' your dead dog?"

"Yes. If you don't he starts to collect dust and how else is he going to stay as silky and magnificent looking as he is?"

"I ain't touching your dead dog, Harry."

Before Harry can protest further, someone clears their throat from the doorway.

"As highly important as the state of your taxidermied dog is, Harry, I have some more tests to run and Eggsy has work to be getting on with as well," Merlin says with a pointed look in Eggsy’s direction.

Eggsy kicks his legs and out and crosses his feet at the ankles and leans back even more. “My mission report is waiting in your email,” he says smugly and his smirk only deepens at the way Merlin frowns as he bangs at his clipboard. “So I’ll stay here with Harry for a bit, keep him company.” Eggsy pauses. “But I still ain’t brushing Mr Pickle, Harry, let’s get that clear straight off.”

Harry narrows his eyes and hums noncommittally under his breath.

“I mean it. Not gonna happen.”

*

Eggsy stares down into the cabinet and chokes, then nudges JB’s slobbery face out of the way so he can shut the door, and makes another mental note in his List of Discoveries about Harry Hart’s House.

The List thus far:

  * One dead dog — Eggsy checked for more too, right off, but so far no signs of any other taxidermied pets lingering about the place.
  * 35 framed collections of butterflies, moths, and various other creepy-crawlies.
  * An entire shelf of books on entomology and lepidopterology (why, Harry, _why_ ) and a half-buried section on terriers and proper care collecting dust.
  * A chest full of trashy romance novels that make Eggsy snort and vintage queer erotica which is _sick_ and what Harry should be using to decorate, far as Eggsy’s concerned.
  * At least 20 different kinds of speciality loose leaf with labels specifying the village of origin.
  * A mismatch of paintings and sketches crammed onto the walls wherever there aren’t any dead things, except in the study where Harry’s Sun front pages are hung like bloody masterpieces, artistic lighting and all.
  * One posh (read: really unnecessarily fucking expensive) espresso maker, three different french presses of varying sizes, a percolator, and a number of contraptions Eggsy’s never even seen or heard of but that google informs him are capable of making coffee, so at least Eggsy never has to worry about lacking in caffeine.
  * China. In display cabinets and in cupboards and everything in between. China _everywhere_.
  * Actual honest-to-god lace doilies — Eggsy nearly pisses himself when he finds that drawer.
  * Three radios and zero televisions, with only Harry’s laptop and top-of-the-line kitchen to prove that the house is indeed from this century.
  * About five handguns strategically placed in each room, thin but deadly sharp knives fitted invisible under every windowsill (and which Eggsy only found by groping around and nearly cut his thumb off by gripping one the wrong way), shotguns hidden under every large piece of furniture, and some seriously heavy-duty iron statues within easy reach just about everywhere if he needs a bludgeon in a pinch.
  * A no-longer-secret stash of biscuits and ice cream.
  * Down pillows and duvets and ridiculous 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and a fucking fur rug, as if Harry has never heard of such a thing as man-made materials, heaven forbid.
  * Enough liquor to supply an entire bunker for years if Eggsy ever needs to prepare for nuclear fallout.
  * One biometric and passcode-locked safe underneath Harry’s desk that Eggsy hasn’t managed to find a way into yet, but he just knows that’s where all the good toys are kept. He’s heard the tech department whispers about prototypes and there ain’t no way Harry didn’t have his hand in that pot.
  * A single photo album Eggsy found in the wardrobe in Harry’s bedroom when he was counting the number of suits Harry owns (53, although Eggsy’s certain there are more), but despite being as nosy and curious as any other spy would be in Eggsy’s position, he had quietly shut the door and gone back to the guest room instead.



*

As Eggsy treks down to Merlin’s office, he marvels once again at how far down HQ goes — and how much of a different universe it is to Arthur’s office and the meeting room at the shop. Eggsy’s fairly certain Merlin chose it for exactly that reason. Chester had been the one nominally in charge of the organisation, but the real power, it had always been here, hidden in the middle of the warren of offices and laboratories, not far from the handlers’ room and the wall-to-wall screens and fast-moving data.

Eggsy’s also pretty sure that Merlin could just run everything off of his clipboard and doesn’t need a physical office, not really. It’s a good reminder though; their newest Arthur, formerly Bedivere, comes down nearly every day as if to trample over the scars Chester left behind when he turned traitor.

Even before that, Chester had been kind of an arse, to put it mildly.

Arthur’s not there for Eggsy’s briefing today, only a small mission on the docket, but Merlin smiles at him from his fortress of polished steel and glass, what feels like miles below ground, and Eggsy has to ask, “You do get sunlight sometimes, yeah? Vitamin D is important, you know.”

“That’s what my vitamin shots are for,” he grumbles testily, but then smirks so Eggsy can’t tell if he’s taking the piss or not; he gives it a 50/50 chance. “You’re going to Croatia. We’re still working on decrypting more information from the hard drive you brought back from Macedonia, but we have been able to find links to an accountant in Dubrovnik. While we’ve been able to locate the accountant’s office, there is no online presence to speak of and he appears to prefer doing everything the pen and pencil route as much as possible. From our research this should be a simple break in and out job, the office itself is nothing special, but you should be prepared for any eventuality. I’ve sent you the relevant information to read up on the flight over. You leave in the morning.” Merlin glances down at his tablet and then rubs his eyes, groaning, “Oh, Christ. Not again.”

“Not again, what?” Eggsy asks and tries not to laugh at the glare Merlin gives him.

“Harry’s bored and left the medical wing, _again_.”

“What damage could he possibly do? It’s not like he’s moving all that fast yet, and he seems to be doing well when I visit. In good spirits and all.”

"No, he behaves while you're around. You spoil him more than your damn dog and he loves it, the attention-seeking bastard. But leave him alone in medical for five minutes without an audience and he gets bored. Nevermind that he finds arranging butterflies for hours on end entertainment, he certainly can't be expected to sit still whilst in recovery,” Merlin grumbles.

Eggsy crosses his arms over his chest, inexplicably defensive. “Oi, he’s not _that bad_ , give the man a bloody break, he’s been in a coma for months.”

"He broke his leg in 96 and nearly blew up HQ with his tinkering. Twice. Arthur was so angry he banned him from the premises except for physical therapy until his cast was off,” Merlin says and stares Eggsy down. “I've known Harry longer than you've been alive and I'd give my right arm for him — and not because he's Kingsman either. Just because he's Harry. But he has never taken well to being injured and off missions for significant periods of time. He is infamous for a reason, trust me."

*

Seeing the chaos in the medical wing for himself, Eggsy might have to admit that Merlin has a point: a trail of papers flying every which way and muffled shouting and Harry ensconced back in his bed in the middle of it, unruffled and much too pleased with himself.

*

Dubrovnik’s stunning, of course, and blessedly dry and warm in July. Eggsy’s got a guidebook and sunglasses and shorts; just another obnoxious British tourist, speaking too loudly and insistently in English, like that will somehow make everyone understand him more easily, to which poor service workers everywhere must want to throttle him, but what’s another one amongst the thousands that pass through each season.

He tools around Old Town for a bit, snaps all the requisite pictures like a good little tourist, which ain’t exactly a difficulty with the Adriatic glittering brightly in the distance against the limestone walls and orange-tiled roofs. He even sends a few to his mum, as if to say, _Hah! Proof of this whole posh, jet-setting tailoring lark_ , which still makes her squint and mmm at him whenever he talks about his work or travels. It is a bit hard to believe how he landed that, he will admit, but, hey, it’s better than the truth which she definitely suspects at this point but they’ve both decided not to mention by mutual, silent agreement. Ignorance is bliss and all that rot.

When he gets to Onofrio’s fountain, he poses lewdly with one of the stone faces where the pipe comes out of its mouth, dripping water like some strange metal trunk, and messages it to Harry, who tries to sound chiding in his response, but Eggsy knows he’s actually laughing because he has the exact same little boy’s sense of humour underneath the gentleman exterior. Then he takes a drink, sun beating down now that it’s approaching midday, and looks longingly at the shade on the other side of the street and the thought of a bit of kip.

Instead he wanders over in the general direction of the accounting office he needs to stake out, and texts Harry more just because.

_Found your encyclopaedia of poisons last night, Harry. Just keeping it around for a bit of light reading before bed, hmm?_

His phone chirps at him as he’s settling into an outdoor table at a cafe down the street where he shouldn’t be visible from inside the office, but where he can watch the comings and goings as he pulls out the map on his guidebook and pretends to have trouble reading it while eating an early lunch.

_Fascinating stuff, poisons. And you never know when the knowledge might come in handy. I was once trapped in the gardens of the royal palace in Jodhpur in only my socks and a bathrobe and managed to escape by making poison darts on the fly._

_No fucking way, you are having me on._

_My legs itched for weeks after having to roll around nearly naked in the bushes and I needed stitches in my right foot where I’d stepped on a sharp branch. My balls might’ve swelled a bit as well, but I’ve thoroughly blocked that part of the experience from my memory._

Eggsy snorts before he can stop himself, but it’s quiet on the street, no one else having lunch yet and the server fiddling listlessly with her phone inside; Eggsy sympathises and has to stifle the urge to jostle his leg as he glances down the way, but there’s no movement from the office still, no one in or out, so he taps his sunglasses.

“What is it, Gaheris?” Merlin asks flatly, unimpressed, and Eggsy grins and puts his phone up to his ear just in case.

“Did Harry really make poison darts while running around gardens in India in his bathrobe?”

Merlin groans and Eggsy can just imagine the way he pinches the bridge of his nose. “How did I know this wasn’t going to be mission related. Concentrate on your work, for fuck’s sake, and stop encouraging Galahad.”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s quiet and I’m bored. I have nothing else to do but wait, so tell me and I’ll stop pestering you, I swear.”

Eggsy can hear Merlin muttering to someone and then the sound of a door closing. “They weren’t darts, just random bits of twigs that he sort of jabbed at people from behind, if you must know—”

“They were _darts_ ,” Harry suddenly breaks in and continues over Merlin’s indignant squawking, “Some of them might not have been particularly aerodynamic, but they were most certainly darts.”

“ _Misshapen, lumpy twigs,_ Galahad, and what in the seven hells _are you doing breaking onto an active comm during a mission?!_ ”

“I thought it would be good to practice my hacking until I’m cleared for more active pursuits,” Harry says, indignant. “And I should keep myself abreast of the current goings on in the world.”

Merlin growls, “ _Galahad, get off the goddamn comm or your coconut-sized bollocks after Jodhpur will look like child’s play_.”

By this point Eggsy is choking into his coffee, red-faced and faintly worried about asphyxiating while Harry says, “Sorry, Gaheris, must dash,” and fucks off right quick.

“Been watching too much Game of Thrones there, bruv?” Eggsy manages to spit out in between bouts of laughter.

“And _you_ ,” Merlin continues, in a low, lethal voice that sends actual shivers up Eggsy’s spine and makes him sit up straighter, laughter petering out. “If I find you encouraging or participating in Galahad’s behaviour while he’s laid up, you will discover exactly why Galahad ran away so quickly.”

Eggsy gulps and crosses his legs.

*

Finally, after about another half an hour, there’s movement down the street. Eggsy was just starting to approach conspicuous territory with his dawdling about the cafe without wifi or a laptop and there are only so many coffees he can drink — probably. Harry certainly seems to think not, the way he goes through them whenever he sits down. Caffeine or alcohol, the man acts like water will be the thing to finally kill him.

Eggsy hums at his map like he’s come to a decision and slowly starts to gather himself up as he watches the accountant and his secretary file out of the building and lock up while they go off for lunch out of the corner of his eye. He doubles back around the block, pulling on a cap and tugging his t-shirt off and stuffing it half into the back of his shorts, leaving him in only a tank top while he alerts Merlin that he’s on the move with a brief touch to his glasses.

He’s able to jimmy a side window open and slide through quick as; he pauses in the reception area and unlocks the front door just in case. The office is exceedingly dull, bland beige and chock full of filing cabinets and Merlin wasn’t kidding about low tech — there’s a computer on the secretary’s desk that looks like it still runs Windows 95 and there are papers fucking _everywhere_.

Merlin sighs through his nose in Eggsy’s ear. “No way you’ll be able to look through everything before they come back. Start in the accountant’s private office.”

Eggsy salutes him in front of the glasses and heads in — place might look straight out of the nineties, but who knows what kind of bugs and other surprises are hidden if the office is connected the way they think it is. After jamming a USB into a computer that looks slightly newer (maybe it’s running Vista, Eggsy thinks disparagingly) and leaving Merlin to it, Eggsy starts flicking through everything he can find, not pausing for a second; Kingsman techs will freeze and clean up the images later, Eggsy just needs to put as many as possible in front of the frames.

Only one of the desk drawers is locked. _Bingo._ Eggsy can’t see any rhyme or reason to it all, lots of numbers and other rubbish flashing before his eyes, but just as he’s setting the locked drawer back to rights, he can hear someone at the front door, keys scraping the lock, and he muffles a curse and yanks the USB back out.

“Someone’s come back early, it’s only been 20 minutes. They’re going to see you, no way around it, Gaheris, you need to improvise,” Merlin says calmly while his fingers clatter over his keyboard in the background.

He notices a flask in the top drawer of the desk and grabs it quickly, chugs a bit, lets some of it splash onto his neck like fucking booze-scented cologne and shoves it back down in time to stumble into the angry secretary, clutching at her and slurring, “Just need a slash, mate. Is the loo this way— I was… the bar down the street.” Eggsy waves nonsensically and trips over his own foot.

“Don’t overdo it, Gaheris,” Merlin hisses in his ear.

“This is an office, how did you get in here?” she asks, clearly panicked, but in the most crisply accented English Eggsy has heard all day, information which he stores to mull over later.

Eggsy grins at her and licks his lips. “You’re pretty,” he purrs in his best impression of Ryan on the pull while completely rat-arsed. “Is everyone here so pretty? Stag night, y’know. Was supposed to meet me mates at the next bar — is this not a bar? This is the address, swear down.”

When she starts muttering things that even Eggsy can translate as _fucking British twats and their day drinking and terrible pre-wedding rituals_ despite the fact that he doesn’t speak a lick of Croatian, he lets himself be herded towards the door.

“How did you get in here?” she demands again as he wobbles over the threshold.

“Door’s unlocked, innit? Are you sure this isn’t the bar, cos—”

She slams the door in his face.

“Well done,” Merlin says as Eggsy slouches down the block and then picks up the pace as he turns the corner.

“Gah, my clothes are fucked. I’m going for a swim, gotta wash this piss off me — and I don’t think I’ve ever seen water that shade of blue before.”

Merlin sounds amused when he says, “Jet leaves in an hour, but there’s a nice beach five minutes walk down the street coming up on your right. Don’t be late.”

Sometimes, sometimes Merlin is fucking _aces_.

*

On the jet Merlin tells him that they were able to trace one of the accounts to a bank in Zagreb and Eggsy will be making a stop there before coming home. By the time they land Eggsy’s gone from drunken tourist to high-rolling investor looking to set up a new account.

Eggsy shoots his cuffs and sends another selfie to Harry — _You fill out a Kingsman suit marvellously, Eggsy, just like I knew you would_ — and all-in-all he feels pretty fucking grand as he strides into the bank.

Just another day at work.


End file.
